


The Switch

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Begging, Deepthroating, Dom Lavellan, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan usually lets Solas take charge when they're alone, but she's back from slaying the Fereldan Frostback and she's not in the mood to bow to anyone.</p><p>Fill for this kink meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=53207680</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Switch

It begins as it always does—with the sway of Lavellan’s hips as she walks, with the way she tosses her hair over her shoulder, sends a long, lingering glance back at him before she moves to the door leading out of the rotunda. Never mind that this time she still reeks of sweat, of dragon blood, fire, brimstone, a heat stirring within her to rival Elgar’nan’s wrath as he scorched the earth. There is still ash on her face, smeared across her vallaslin, dragon blood spattered across her copper skin. She knows there is a particularly interesting pattern on her neck, the exact place he likes to mark her best, and she tilts her head to bare her throat for him, to invite him to taste it.

                As always, she watches his gaze drag along her body from across the room. How his eyes darken as they linger at the small of her back, the place her throat curves, exposed. His expression schooled into a mask of disinterest; his knuckles white on the spine of the book he is supposed to be reading.

                When he finally manages to tear his gaze from her throat, their eyes meet, and she smirks.

                Normally, he lowers his gaze to his book and pretends to continue reading. Normally, she retires to her quarters early, and Solas arrives separately, when no one is watching.

                This time, he lowers his gaze. This time, she lingers in the doorway, unmoving. They remain frozen, a game of wills, her patience stacked against his, her will raised in defiance of his unwavering control.

                She waits, barely breathing. She can feel his mood shift, see the slight tremble of his jaw as his eyes stare at the page, not blinking, waiting for her to move.

                She does not. She raises a brow and waits, as the dragon waited.

                She is rewarded by an infinitesimal frown, the twist of his wrist as he snaps the book shut, and a myriad of other tiny cracks in his slightly bored expression as he stands and makes his way to her, his hands clasped behind his back.

                He follows her dutifully through the main hall. Heads turn as they always do when she passes through, and behind her Solas is a silent shadow, noticed by few. Introduced as her servant at Halamshiral, his meek clothing now, he is not so much unnoticed as thoroughly ignored in the shadow of the Inquisitor, returned from slaying the Frostback. She breezes past them all, ignoring every shouted congratulations or murmured prayer sent in her direction. Solas follows behind, and she wonders how no one notices his scowl deepen every time she is called Herald, every time there is a whisper of Andraste.

                She’s not sure when she noticed how angry it makes him. Maybe she’s always known its echo in her gut.

                They finally notice Solas when she opens the door to her quarters, and he continues to follow her. She stands beside the door and waits, holding it open and watching his expression.

                Oh, how he balks at that. His jaw clenches and there’s a spark in his eyes, dark and wanting. But he obeys, thoroughly trapped by decorum and the whispers behind them. He inclines his head just slightly as he passes her, something like a bow, something like a surrender, and she grows warmer for it, enjoying a long look at his ass as he begins to climb the stairs.

                She locks the door behind her. Solas is still climbing the stairs, as if this was his idea all along.

                They reach her quarters proper and _he_ closes the door, _he_ bolts it.

                “Are you playing a game, _vhenan_?” His voice is crisp, cool, level. His eyes are something else entirely, stormclouds and thunder.

                She only smiles. She leans against the wall behind her and rolls her head back, just enough to expose her neck again, enough so that she can still watch him.

                His lips _just_ part, his chest rises in a small, half-breath. His eyes linger on her throat, something wild passing over them.

                He moves so slowly. He plants a hand on either side of her, deliberately, with such care as if he were planting them on her flesh. He leans forward, but he does not touch her. Her breathing is still, her throat exposed for him to take in his mouth, mark with his lips, tongue, teeth.

                She can feel his eyelashes brush along her cheek as he blinks, once, deliberately.

                “You are filthy,” he tells her in a low, calculated voice. “You smell of carnage and death.”

                She almost laughs. “You have no idea.”

                He withdraws from her, expecting obedience and finding none. “You have been difficult enough already, _vhenan_ ,” he says, giving her a long look up and down. “I will not touch you until you’ve bathed.”

                He goes to climb the stairs again. When she does not follow he lingers at the top of the stairs, and from this angle she can see an expression of doubt pass over his face—ah. He must be wondering if he’s hurt her in some way.

                So she follows him, slowly, dragging her fingers along the stone wall to her right. As if freed from his reverie, Solas moves away from her again, going to the couch at the far end of the room.

                This is not the first time she’s tried to seduce him still covered in the filth of the road. Impatient and with this want a whole new thing growing inside her that she didn’t understand, she would beg and plead and whine for him to touch her, to hold her, to tell her what to do and when to come and how quickly or slowly she must roll her hips, accept his cock in her mouth. But Solas takes delight in her stripping before him, throwing the muck and the filth of the road from her and then watching herself be made completely clean, right down to the undersides of her nails, of commanding her to wash herself until she shakes and trembles and begs for him.

                It’s a game she’s familiar with by this point. And while she delights in amusing him, she rode back to Skyhold with a dragon in her blood, in her heart, with the rhythm of its movements memorised, and she carries them in her hips as she strolls not to the tub, waiting and warm, but to her bed. The coil of its great body is reflected in hers, in the way she lingers by the bedpost. She does not remove her clothing. She does not remove her gaze from Solas.

                “Fen’harel,” she says.

               His gaze snaps up to meet hers. Oh, this game in particular drives him so wild—she has played it only once with him, more with her lovers in her clan. He does not always respond well to her attempts to play games, and this continued defiance of his orders makes his expression darken yet again, makes something she barely recognises pass across his features.

                She has to exhale to keep herself steady. But she waits.

                “Keeper,” he says, slowly, and he stands. As he begins to cross the room she feels her body practically convulse with want—he crosses one foot in front of the other, just so, his hips swaying with the walk of a predator. He was practically unhinged the last time she attempted this, and the memory of it is almost enough to make her knees fail her, her feet fall out from under her. She almost begs, then, but she tightens her grip on the bedpost and meets his gaze as he finally comes to a stop, just in front of her.

                She almost expects him to tell her to bathe. His eyes follow the lines of her vallaslin, follow the trail of dragon blood across her throat. He licks his lips.

                “I expected a wayward _da’len_ ,” he says, and he begins to circle her.

                She has to conceal the thrill she feels at this victory. She drops her hand from the bedpost.

                “Not a Keeper, with a sylvanwood ring. You have prostrated yourself before my altar, and I have yet to see your offering.”

                He stops behind her, to run his hands along the clasps of her coat, to flick them undone with tiny, deliberate motions.

                “I have none,” she purrs.

                He makes a low, pleasant noise in his throat. She hums in response.

                He slips the coat from her shoulders, and it falls to the floor.

                “You risk my anger, foolish Keeper,” he murmurs into her ear, his breath hot. His fingers unclasp the breast plate, and he lifts it from her to toss it to the side, carelessly. He slips his hands between the band of her trousers and her skin, and she exhales. Heat coils up in her core, and she wonders that her breath isn’t fire.

                “You have one more chance,” he says, his lips brushing the tip of her ear, “to prove to me that you may protect your clan. I do not suffer fools, Keeper.”

                She thinks of the dragon, and she tilts her head to the side, baring her dragon blood-spattered throat to him.

                “Please, Fen’harel, tell me what you mean.”

                The last time— _the only time she’d dared_ —she’d said it with reverence, a voice shaking with want. She smelled like soap and elfroot, hair still dripping wet from the bath. But this time her voice is smooth, even, low, and she smells of sweat, battle and death.

                He can hear the difference, and his eyes flicker between her mouth and her throat. They narrow slightly—just slightly—and she knows he’s wondering what she has planned, what that secret smile at the corner of her mouth means.

                She licks her lips and leaves them parted, deliberately.

                His breathing grows rough, just for a moment, and it’s all she can do to keep her wicked grin at bay.

                “I will show you,” he says, and she delights in the waver in his voice.

                His hands shake as he pulls her tunic over her head, followed by her breastband. His breathing is hot, rough against her skin, the only thing of his that touches her, and she hums at the sound of it, at the pressure growing deep in her core. His hands brush her hips as he pulls at her leggings, but he pulls them no further than her knees. She has to kick them off with those shem boots, and he stands behind her, not touching her, his face bowed to where her neck and her shoulder meet.

                There is a long moment where the only sound is their breathing, and then she feels his fingers glide across the surface of her neck.

                She gasps in spite of herself, and she tilts her head back further, baring the full of her neck to his ministrations. His fingers brush where her pulse beats, and he leans in to drag his teeth across the dragon blood on her skin.

                She moans, low and rich, and he presses his lips to her skin to suck at it, draws his tongue along the line the blood’s made on her throat, and she wonders with a quickening of her pulse what it tastes like. She opens her mouth to ask but he bites her, hard, and a short cry escapes her, bright and loud. He moans in reply, sucking again— _harder_ —and before she can move his hands are on her breasts, squeezing, massaging, thumbing her nipples until they’re hard.

                Just as her knees begin to grow weak, he shoves her to the floor. She catches herself on her palms, gasping for breath, as he walks around in front of her—that predator’s pace, a wolf’s single tread gait, and it makes her heart pound against her ribcage like a frightened animal.

                “Did you think you would appease me with such a little offering as your throat?” His voice is a low growl, and the sound of it makes her want to find something to grind against until oblivion comes. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her head back, up, to look at him, at the hard bulge in his leggings.

                She licks her lips. “It appears that I have, Fen’harel.”

                His grip on her scalp tightens, and she laughs at his sharp intake of breath. He hesitates for a moment, his whole body tense before her—she can almost imagine what he is thinking of her, disobedient and quick-tongued, and she allows herself a moment of gloating.

                Before he can withdraw, she says, “Dread Wolf, I offer you my mouth.”

                He is breathing _so heavily_. His expression is exquisite—dark eyed with desire, panic.

                He lets go of her hair to untie the laces of his leggings, and it’s with a smirk that she pulls them down around his ankles. He grabs her hair again and yanks until her mouth opens and he thrusts into her mouth.

                She accepts him with a moan, and she sucks best she can as he thrusts again, deeper. She makes a strangled noise around him and he readjusts, swearing softly. She would laugh if she could, would try to suck and rub and please if she had a moment, had a second to breathe and react, but he thrusts harder still, hard enough for her body to rock with his, and she moans at a ghost of friction between her legs, and it’s all she can do to keep hold of his ankles, keep her head at the angle he wants.

                As suddenly as he began he withdraws from her, and she gasps for breath. He shoves her onto her back on the floor, pinning her by her shoulders, legs straddling hers, and she marvels at the flush on his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. He’s close—closer than her, maybe.

                “Are you not satisfied yet, Dread Wolf?” she teases, voice rough and used. “What else can I possibly offer that would please you?”

                He raises himself up long enough to pull off his tunic, leaving himself bare at last, save for his footwraps. He leans down to kiss her, to bite at her lower lip and suck on it until it’s swollen.

                He pulls away with a smile, some of his composure regained. “You can beg, Keeper,” he whispers against her lips. “Beg for me to take you.”

                She almost moans, feeling the tip of his cock brush against her entrance. She bares her neck to him and rolls her hips, once, and his grip on her shoulders tightens, nails digging into her skin.

                “I believe,” he pants.

                She laughs, low and breathy. He bites her neck, hard, in chiding, but his breath against her skin is rough, ragged, and she knows he is enjoying her defiance, even if he won’t admit it.

                “ _I believe_ ,” he says again, “you are supposed to beg.”

                He goes back to sucking on her neck, biting as hard as he can without breaking her skin. She makes a show of gasping and moaning, rolling her hips to feel a brush of his cock against her thigh, and she delights at the strangled noises of pleasure coming from his mouth, the feeling of his teeth raking across her throat.

                She does not beg. She shifts her leg so that her thigh rubs full on against his hardness with every shift she makes, tacky against her skin with the coating of her spit dried in the air. She keeps her movements steady, seductive, calculated, and she feels Solas’ jaw shaking as it moves, his breath on her skin hot and desperate, his cock growing harder with every roll of her hips that brings her thigh dragging along his length delicately, teasing.

                “Does this please you, Fen’harel?” Her voice is a low murmur, rough around the edges but surprisingly collected, whole.

                The noise that escapes his throat is rough, growling, wild. Nearly unhinged. His grip on her shoulders lessens and he moves to steady himself on the floor underneath them instead.

                She sweeps his legs out from under him and rolls him onto his back. He lies there, stunned, long enough for her to clamber over him, leaning over him, her hair falling over her shoulders and draping between them. His eyes are dark, wild, wide, angry and needing, and a tentative movement of her leg tells her he has only grown harder.

                Her grin is feral. He is frozen in place, his eyes dancing all over her naked body.

                “You come here to threaten my clan, Dread Wolf,” she says.

                His eyes snap up to meet hers.

                She licks her lips. “I believe it is my duty to protect them from your influence. Isn’t that right, Fen’harel?”

                He says nothing, and for a moment she thinks he will not play along—she’s never changed the game like this before. She doesn’t know how he’ll react.

                She grows tired of waiting for a response and brushes her leg against his cock again. He makes a strangled noise that’s almost a growl, and his head rolls back, arching his neck for her. She drinks in the sight of him below her, the way his eyelids flutter, the sight of his teeth between his lips, and it makes her dizzy.

                Finally, he relents. “Yes, Keeper,” he breathes.

                She rewards him by bowing lower, drawing herself closer to him, and claiming his neck with her teeth. She bites him hard, hard enough she’s certain it will bruise, and she sucks and nibbles some more to be sure, then shifts further down, sucking at his collarbone.

                “Although,” she says in between kisses, biting, “I think I might have some use for you this night.”

                He moans low in his throat, and she feels it vibrate in his chest, against her lips.

                “I might be convinced not to chase you away like the dog you are, Fen’harel.” She lowers herself to his nipples, to take one between her lips and to tease at it, work it back and forth.

                His hands make fists on the floor beside him, and small, desperate noises escape his throat with his short breaths.

                She releases the nipple with a smirk and he gasps. “But you have to make it worth my while.”

                He raises his head to meet her gaze, pupils wide, face completely flushed, lips parted.

                He licks his lips. “I offer my mouth, Keeper,” he says.

                Mythal, but the sound of the voice almost makes her give it all up, drop herself onto his cock and rock into him until they’re both delirious with pleasure. Rough and used, high and wanting, he’s just shy of begging and it takes everything she has to pull herself up, kneel on either side of his head and, using her bed for support, lower herself onto his lips, so slowly.

                She feels his hands on her hips, helping support her, and then she feels his tongue draw one long, deliberate line all along her clit. She almost bucks against him then, almost loses her control and grinds against his face, but she ignores the heat rising on her cheeks and she rolls her hips in a slow, controlled circle that sends jolts of pleasure up her spine. He sucks at her nub and she shudders in delight. When he drags his teeth across her clit a moan escapes her, rich and breathy and almost in spite of herself she sounds so fucking smug. She throws her head back and rides his face harder, faster, and he tries to keep up with sharp, frantic breaths through his nose. She doesn’t hold back, letting every little satisfied hum and delighted moan pass through her lips without reservation, and the fire that’s been coiling in her core is blazing, even her fingertips are aflame with pleasure, the place where his tongue and teeth and lips are lathing against her white hot, burning.

                “Is that—ahh—all you’ve got—ngh—Fen’harel?” she brays, louder than she means to, interrupted by sparks of pleasure building inside her, making her toes curl and her hands make fists in the sheets of the bed she’s using to support herself.

                His answering growl is low, desperate, wordless. She bows her head to look at him, to take in how red his face has become, the sweat beading on his brow. A glance over her shoulder and she can see his cock, hard, erect, precum dripping from it, and she returns her gaze to his with a smug smirk, her hair falling over her shoulders.

                “I will be extremely cross if you are finished before me, Fen’harel,” she teases him, practically cooing.

                The noise he makes is almost a whimper, almost a pleading whine, and it makes her sigh with pleasure.

                She rolls her hips anew and coaxes him, “Harder.”

                He obeys, and even though he’s growing sloppy with desire the feel of his teeth every time they brush against her sends a new sharp gasp escaping through her lungs.

                “Faster,” she commands, her voice low and breathy.

                He matches the new pace her hips set, and her voice climbs higher, and even as her fingers ball in the sheets, her elbows and his hands the only things keeping her upright, she meets his gaze with determination, with a lazy smirk, and she says all sweetness and innocence, “Dread Wolf, is that the best you can do?”

                He grunts, deep and hard and growling in his throat, and his hands grip her hips tighter as he bears his tongue up on her clit, up on the place where there is so much pressure building. He presses the flat of his teeth there, draws back to suck hard, goes in again with his tongue and he doesn’t relent. She screams and taunts him and rolls into him, driving his head into the floor as he cycles between all three, as his nails bite half-moon circles into her skin, as her legs begin to fail her and it’s a miracle she stays upright instead of collapsing on top of him.

                But she keeps his gaze, keeps her eyes on his the whole time, until finally the pressure is too great and her body jerks once, twice, and she screams once more, throwing her head back. Her hips rock erratically against his face as she feels spasms of pleasure burst through her body, feels wetness leaking out and onto Solas’ chin as he tries to lick it all up, drink everything that spills out of her.

                When she is done, she pulls herself down, and he gasps for breath once his mouth is free of her. “Vhenan,” he begs.

                She hums and kneels over him, planting her hands on his chest.

                “Keeper,” he corrects himself. “Have I pleased you?”

                She tilts her head to the side and looks down on him, smiling. Oh, he’s so undone—his breath is coming in short, desperate pants, and his hands have dropped from her hips to ball into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

                “Please,” he begs, not waiting for her response. “Release me.”

                “That depends,” she says. “What do you have left to offer me, Dread Wolf?”

                He rolls his head back, and she admires the bruise forming on his neck, the indents of her teeth dark purple lines in his skin. “Everything,” he says, his voice low and ruined and it stirs something new inside her. “Everything and more. Take it all. Take me. Please.”

                The rest is a string of elven, not even full sentences, just scattered words and half-phrases. He goes on so long he’s almost sobbing, and she interrupts him by winding her fingers around the string of his wolf jaw amulet, humming in pleasure. Then she leans forward and kisses him, tastes herself in his mouth and moans at the texture of it on their tongues.

                A low, plaintative cry escapes him, and she drinks up every last waver in his voice.

                She breaks the kiss, enjoying the whimper that causes. “You make a compelling offer, Fen’harel,” she murmurs into his lips. Then she draws herself back up so she lords over him, smirking, as she lowers herself onto his cock.

 _Elgar’nan_. He’s hard and hot and even slick as she is she has to pause halfway through to adjust, panting. But she draws him in completely, fully, and even as she trembles with exertion she feels the heat building inside her, just having him there.

                “Is this what you had in mind, Fen’harel?” she teases.

                Just as he opens his mouth to answer, she shifts her hips just slightly.

                His nails dig into her skin anew. “Ah— _yes_.”

                “Yes what?”

                A strangled moan of frustration and pleasure. “Yes _Keeper_.”

                Oh, he’s practically throbbing inside her. Just that is enough to make the fire in her build up again, and she moves as the dragon moved—deliberately, power in every curve of her body. She drags her fingers down to his hips and guides him in a slow, rolling thrust, their hips moving together, rising and falling, and she soaks in every gasp he makes, every twitch and quiver of his cock inside her.

                “Harder,” she says, an even though her voice is rising it’s still a command, she still maintains control.

                “Yes, Keeper,” he snarls, and he drives into her anew.

                She rocks into him, with him, above him, and she’s overwhelmed but the drops her hand to her clit, to massage it with their movements as she feels Solas grow harder inside her, as the friction builds and she draws tighter around him. Her other hand moves to her breast and she massages and flicks her nipple, already hard and pebbled. They’re both glistening with sweat, her wetness leaking around his cock as if he hadn’t already drank what she offered, and she almost slides on the floor so she adjusts—and _there’s_ the angle she’s been looking for, and she has to drop a hand to his hips to maintain it, her legs are shaking so badly.

                She digs her nails into his flesh and the things that come out of his mouth are incoherent, somewhere in between elven and trade, arching his back and howling into the air between them. Suddenly he’s not so much thrusting anymore as rutting, an animal beneath her, and it’s all she can do to keep up, stay upright. She screams his name, screams curses at the Dread Wolf, and when he begs she commands him to keep going, not yet, harder, _not yet—_

                “Please.” His voice is high, desperate, utterly ravaged by his screams of desire.

                It’s too much, and as she feels the end drawing close she shouts something that means assent, the words that pass her lips lost in a haze of overwhelming pleasure and heat. She draws so tight around him and she feels him come inside her, and the feeling of being full of him is enough to throw her over the edge again, her throat raw for screaming even as she calls his name and continues to rut against him, all sensation but their bodies joining lost to her for a long, precious moment.

                She hesitates only to push aside his jawbone amulet before she collapses on him, enjoying the sensation of him growing soft within her. They kiss lazily, overwhelmed, the taste of salt and the smell of their lovemaking between them, and she reaches up to brush her fingers along the marks she’s made on his neck.

                He hums his pleasure into her lips, and she smiles.


End file.
